


on the dark side of the bed.

by halowrites



Category: Popslash
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-07
Updated: 2011-03-07
Packaged: 2017-10-16 04:15:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/168311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halowrites/pseuds/halowrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>written for the Boys In Their Dresses challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	on the dark side of the bed.

"I knocked," Chris says, and of all the things he should have said, it barely even rates. Yet those are the words that slip from his mouth, are all he can think of to say.

"I heard you." Justin half-turns, the movement strangely graceful, and Chris’ breath catches in his chest, his fingers curling hard and fierce into his palms. Deep rich red silk panties, and Justin is wearing them, is smoothing his hands over the softly-gathered waistband, tilting his hip so the fabric flares slightly, and Chris has to drag his gaze away from where silk meets shadow at the pale crease of Justin’s inner thigh.

"I’ll just—" Chris says, not even realising he’s been slowly moving toward the door until he feels it against his back, smooth and cool and solid, and he hears his teeth snap together, prickles of heat rippling between his shoulderblades.

"It’s okay," Justin says quietly, "you can stay." He sounds strange and faraway, almost like he’s talking to himself, and _this is wrong_ , Chris thinks. _I shouldn’t be here._

"Justin, I really—"

"Stay." Spoken a lot closer than a moment before, because Justin’s on the bed now, sitting on the edge of the mattress, red silk pulled taut across the tops of his thighs.

 _  
French knickers  
_  
, Chris thinks, _that’s what they’re called_. The absurdity of the thought strikes him, and he swallows down the nervous laughter he can feel bubbling just under his skin. "Okay," he manages, hoping his voice sounds halfway normal, wondering if it betrays the pulse skittering in his throat, "okay, but just for a moment."

"Sit down if you want to," Justin says, but Chris stays where he is, back pressed flat to the door, his skin tight and thrumming. "And you can touch," Justin says softly, and this time it is to himself, the words whispered as he falls back slowly onto the bed, his eyes fluttering closed, his hands slipping beneath the waistband of the panties.

Chris doesn’t want to watch, but he can’t _not_ watch, can’t move his eyes away, not when it’s taking him all his time to stay standing. Brilliant red bleeds beneath the curve of Justin’s wrist, and Chris concentrates on the row of tiny dark hairs where skin slips into more skin, pale and cool. _Milk_ , he thinks, _pale_ _like milk._

Not like milk at all, but it’s in his head now, unbidden, jittering behind his eyes and it won’t go, can’t get rid of it, it’s just _there_ , and if he could move, could move _away,_ he’d write it down, store it away for later, to be taken out and examined in someplace that is not here and not now.

But it is here and now, and the slow whisper of skin across silk is soft and hypnotic, and Chris wraps his fingers tightly in the hem of his t-shirt to keep them still, to stop from touching himself. He’s so hard he wants to cry. The cotton is scratchy-slick against his fingertips, catching on a hangnail, and he swears softly under his breath.

Another soft noise and Chris sees that on the bed, Justin has opened his eyes and is watching him carefully. He’s still stroking himself slowly, a strange and heady mix of coquettish and sly beneath thick black lashes, long legs spread beneath him, and he shouldn’t look like this at all, shouldn’t _sound_ like that—

And Justin’s fingers, not awkward or clumsy at all, deftly working to cup and stroke and then splay across his belly, to slip once again beneath the waistband of the panties. "Watch," Justin whispers, and Chris can’t do anything but, can’t look away from the slow, shadowed movements. Heat flares again, thick and sudden, and he bites back the noises he wants to make as he watches, swallows down the words he wants to speak even as his lips move soundlessly to form around them.

 _  
Watch  
_  
, Justin said, and so Chris does. Watches the way Justin is moving, almost shimmying on the bed, twisting his body every which way, silk pulled tight against his belly, across the plane of his hips. "Feels good," Justin whispers, barely a breath, but Chris hears it, feels the words burning into his skin, slipping along his spine.

Justin shifts a little, sliding himself higher on the bed, tilting his hips and arching his back, and still, the slow, measured glide of his hand beneath the sheer fabric. He sets a rhythm, back and forth, rocking into his own curled fingers, the tip of his cock appearing slick and obscene on each upward stroke. "Chris," he gasps, his hand moving faster now, his breath choppy and uneven and as Chris watches, Justin’s body bows and curves, the muscles in his thighs locking as he shudders through his orgasm, wetness slowly blossoming across red silk like blood.

Chris bites hard into his lip, concentrates on the sharp, bright pain, his fingers still tightly curled in his t-shirt, tight enough to burn and sting. He closes his eyes, counting slowly in his head, and waits, even though he’s not even really sure what he’s waiting for. Something, anything, other than this.

"mmm," he hears—Justin, and he’s moving again, shifting on the bed. Chris blinks, focuses, and Justin has rolled onto his stomach, hands tucked under his head, legs curled up. A tiny slice of panic in Chris’ belly, and he breathes through it, clears his throat softly. "Justin, c’mon--"

"Shh," Justin murmurs, voice thick and drowsy, "'m sleeping, Chris—"

"Justin, you have to— the panties. Ms Harl—your _mom_ , she can’t. Justin, she can’t see you like this—"

"’kay," Justin sighs softly, and with eyes still closed, he lifts his hips off the bed a little, hooks his thumbs into the waistband and slides them down, stopping only when they get twisted around his feet. "Stuck," he mumbles, face pressed into the pillow, and he looks so awkward for a moment that Chris almost takes a step forward to help him.

Almost.

"C’mon, J," Chris says quietly, "nearly there, alright?"

Justin’s reply is grunted softly into the pillow, his movements slow and dreamlike, but he finally manages to pull the tangle of silk and lace free, kicking it away with a half-hearted flick of his foot. He says something Chris can’t quite hear, tiny nonsense words, heavy with sleep and heat, then rolls over, curling an arm under his pillow. Deep, even breaths, and Chris knows he’s asleep already, has listened to those same sounds countless times before.

 _  
Go  
_  
, he thinks, _get out and just go._ He’s still hard, almost painfully so, and for a moment, even walking seems beyond him, too much sensation to handle, his skin hot and shimmering with each and every breath he takes. One step, then another, and Chris shifts away from the door enough to find the handle. _Go_ , he thinks again, _go now_ , and he does, pausing only to take the crumpled panties off the bed and slip them into his pocket.

 

*

 _  
No  
_  
, he hears, murmured soft and low somewhere in the dim room, _no, it’s okay._ _Slow down._

His own voice and Chris barely recognises it, can hardly hear anything over the blood pounding in his head, throbbing between his legs.

 _  
Slow down  
_  
. And he does, pulse stuttering in his throat, deep, even breaths, closes his eyes as he lowers his head, down and down and _down_ , until he feels his lips touch damp scarlet.

The silk tastes of nothing at all against his tongue, even though he’d thought of blood oranges, of thick, ripe watermelon flesh, of tart and shiny apples slick and slippery between his teeth. It tastes of nothing at all but feels like glass splinters shattering in his mouth, bright slivers that bleed the air from him in tiny hitches, stretch his lungs and make light spark and flare behind his eyes.

His fingers feel clumsy and awkward and _wrong_ , the heat that’s coiled low in his belly slowly turning to something crawling and heavy. Too heavy, and he can’t, he _can’t_ —

He fumbles at the waistband of his sweatpants, managing to drag them down to his knees, trying not to trip over as he leans back against his bedroom door. Soft, smooth fabric twisted between his fingers and then it’s silk against skin once more, his strokes rough and urgent, and he bites into his forearm to keep from making a noise. When he comes, barely moments later, it’s hard and fast and it’s all he can do to keep standing upright.

 

 

*

 

 

"Chris, honey," Lynn says, "can I have a word with you?"

She’s folding laundry, long nails flashing scarlet against white cotton, sheets neatly squared away with a practiced flick of her wrist. Behind her, Justin sits at the kitchen table with a stack of schoolbooks, one open in front of him. He looks over at Chris and grins, and Chris has to look away. "Sure, " he says, and his throat is dry and tight. "What’s up?"

"In here," she says, and her fingers are wrapped around his wrist, leading him into the hallway, pulling the door closed behind them. "It’s nothing, really," she says, smiling, a mirror of Justin’s grin. "Don’t look so worried, okay?"

"Okay." But Chris’ heartbeat is still doing double-time in his chest all the same, and it’s stupid, because it’s just Lynn, and there’s nothing—

"I found these," she says quietly, and Chris doesn’t even have to look, sees the shimmer of red in her hand, and his belly flips over and over, something cold and solid in the pit of it. "In your room, when I was gathering up your laundry."

"I can—"

"No, honey—it’s okay." She places a finger against his lips, and makes a small hushing sound. "Really, it’s okay. I’m not angry. I just." She smiles again, glances down at the small crumple of silk in her hand, absently tracing over the intricate lace with a long, scarlet fingernail. "I don’t mind you bringing girls to the house."

Chris bites back the small sound of relief he wants to make, slips his hands into his pockets so she won’t see how much they’re shaking. He doesn’t trust his voice, but he has to say something, because she’s looking at him, waiting. "Girls," he says, "yeah. I’m. I should have said."

She shrugs, a tiny shiver of her shoulders. "Don’t worry about it," she says in a low voice, like she’s spilling secrets. "I know you must need—well. I just want you to be careful. With, y’know--" --a small tilt of her head toward the closed door-- "--Justin. He’s still so young, and all. You know how he looks up to you."

Chris nods, and his head feels as if it might float away at any second. Just come loose from his body and roll away along the hallway. _It wouldn’t be any more bizarre than this conversation_ , he thinks, and curls his fingers hard into his palm to focus. "Sure," he says finally. "Sure, Ms Harless—I understand."

"I knew you would," she says, and reaches for his hand, slides it right out of his pocket. "And it's Lynn." Silk, smooth and cool against his skin, slipped between his fingers and the sudden shock of lace makes him gasp a little. "I thought you might want them back. They certainly don’t fit me." This time Chris can’t speak, so he nods again. "I washed them," she murmurs, and watches him for just a moment too long, then leans close, close enough he can smell the waxy-sweet scent of her lipstick, can feel the brush of her lips across his cheek. Warm breath slipping into his ear, her fingers pressed against his back, and, "you’re such a good boy," whispered low and secret before she slips away, leaving him standing alone in the hallway.

 

*

 

Justin looks up when Chris walks into the kitchen, silhouetted against the late afternoon sun, a carton in his hand. "Mom’s gone out," he says after a mouthful of milk, sharp white teeth and impossibly pink, pink lips, his tongue snaking out to lick them clean. "Here. Dinner might be a little late."

An apple, tossed across the counter, and Chris snatches it out of the air almost by reflex. He cups it in the palm of his hand, turning it round and round, cool and smooth and red beneath his fingertips. "Justin," he says softly, only because he thinks he should.

"She’ll be an hour or so, she said." Justin brushes past, his skin stained scarlet and gold in the half-light. "Wanna come watch some tv in my room?"

Chris lets his teeth sink into the apple, perfect flesh crisp and melting bittersweet across his tongue. "Sure," he says, and follows Justin through the door.


End file.
